"Every journey begins at home."
If you read that twice, you might think it is a deep and profound thought. What is he saying? Does he mean that no matter how far you travel, both physically and meta-physically, the journey must take you back to your roots; you're humunculous, pre-natal roots? There the answer lies. Maybe he means that before we explore both the world and ourselves, take a brief moment for contemplative meditation, find your beautiful inner-you, and reflect upon the road that stretches ahead?
Nah. I just mean that you have to pack before you leave your house.
That's where all travel begins. In your closet. In your dresser drawer. In your sibling's closet. Under the bed. Wherever your possessions may lurk. Might I offer some of my tried and tested advice to you?
Keep it simple! Mountains of stress can be avoided by simply packing lightly. When dealing with airports, adhere to the Buddhist creed: if you have no possessions, then you have none to lose. Fewer bags means fewer moments of waiting at the freakin conveyor belt that I so desperately wish to gleefully ride, and the less time you spend there, the better. True, there are friends to be made as you help the cute college backpacker with her cinder blocks packed in a steel reinforced trunk (she doesn't read this blog), but it's fleeting. She's just not into you. You might think she is, but hell, who wants to make friends at a time like this? When I am waiting for my luggage, I'm so angsty I could strangle a baby seal. That's not a quality the ladies are digging these days. I digress...
Simply, you won't lose your bags if you are carrying the only one you need.
Travelling forces you to assess what you value most.
That's deep.
I mean, do you really need six pairs of jeans? Truly, the stone-washed Guess ones look exactly like the Seven vintage ones. There's no need to bring both. Nobody will notice and your lower back will thank you. Do you need five pairs of shoes? Nope. Find those casual-yet-classy-yet-comfortable ones that can serve many purposes. So much easier. And tie them to the outside of your bag. They take up an unnecessarily large amount of interior bag-space. Especially if you are going to be moving from place to place, stopping for only a few days at a time, the less you pack the better.
Ugh. I am reliving those sweaty memories where I am trying to get my overloaded green suitcase into a youth hostel, but the fucking steel bump in the doorway is impeding my progress. I try and try, but fail. Repeatedly. More sweat. Get a running start and... it tips over. Some kind local tries to help but I just grunt and try to muscle it over. Sweating profusely. I get it over, only to have to wait in line to sign in. After thats done, I find out that my room is on another floor. A cheerful baby seal walks in the front door...
In the end, after you are done packing, chances are that you don't need 30% of the crap in your bag. Re-assess. Be ruthless. Pack plenty of socks.
Cheers,
Matt
Eh. I'm gettin bored writing this post. It sucks. I'll change it later. But hey, at least I have a new theme. AND I can incorporate my odd thoughts on the mundane INSIDE of the blog. Cool. I'll come back to this.
-MR
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Are You Still Reading This?
Hey.
You.
Are you still reading my blog?
Dude, I haven't updated this thing in probably two or three months. It's defunct. It's kaput. It's nicht ser gut.
I'd like to change that. I want to restart the blog, but with a new purpose. At the moment, I don't know what that purpose should be. I mean, at this exact moment it's just therapy, as I am writing these lines with the full knowledge that nobody is reading this. "Then why post it?" asketh you. Answereth: Um, I'm not sure. I guess it is a bit like confession right now. Not that I ever went to confession, nor have much to confess (lie), but you get the idea.
Anyhow, I want to take the blog in a new direction. Enough of my random thoughts and rants about typical daily-grind bullshit. True, it was rather insightful, if I may be so bold to say. True, it was fleetingly entertaining and provides a nice outlet for my pent up frustrations... but... it ain't marketable. I'd like to do something that will make me some money, win me a following, make me famous. I have no delusions about that. Bills don't pay themselves. All I have to decide is what to write about:
Politics?
Nah. I couldn't bear the inevitable deluge of hate mail. I'm very sensitive to those types of things.
Entertainment?
Fuck no. I'm not contributing to the downfall of Western Civilization... or at least Western culture.
Travel?
That's a bit more up my alley. However, I am grounded for the foreseeable future and would just be writing based on conjecture and imperfect memories. That's not so bad, I suppose. So far, this topic is in the lead.
Money and Finance?
Considering that my net worth is roughly $32.84, I don't think I should be the one giving advice.
Travel it is then. I'll make shit up. It's what I'm good at. I'll do a few test posts, and you, sun-drenched reader, can let me know what you think.
Cheers,
Matt
You.
Are you still reading my blog?
Dude, I haven't updated this thing in probably two or three months. It's defunct. It's kaput. It's nicht ser gut.
I'd like to change that. I want to restart the blog, but with a new purpose. At the moment, I don't know what that purpose should be. I mean, at this exact moment it's just therapy, as I am writing these lines with the full knowledge that nobody is reading this. "Then why post it?" asketh you. Answereth: Um, I'm not sure. I guess it is a bit like confession right now. Not that I ever went to confession, nor have much to confess (lie), but you get the idea.
Anyhow, I want to take the blog in a new direction. Enough of my random thoughts and rants about typical daily-grind bullshit. True, it was rather insightful, if I may be so bold to say. True, it was fleetingly entertaining and provides a nice outlet for my pent up frustrations... but... it ain't marketable. I'd like to do something that will make me some money, win me a following, make me famous. I have no delusions about that. Bills don't pay themselves. All I have to decide is what to write about:
Politics?
Nah. I couldn't bear the inevitable deluge of hate mail. I'm very sensitive to those types of things.
Entertainment?
Fuck no. I'm not contributing to the downfall of Western Civilization... or at least Western culture.
Travel?
That's a bit more up my alley. However, I am grounded for the foreseeable future and would just be writing based on conjecture and imperfect memories. That's not so bad, I suppose. So far, this topic is in the lead.
Money and Finance?
Considering that my net worth is roughly $32.84, I don't think I should be the one giving advice.
Travel it is then. I'll make shit up. It's what I'm good at. I'll do a few test posts, and you, sun-drenched reader, can let me know what you think.
Cheers,
Matt
Thursday, April 17, 2008
MR is BA
Men I admire:
Hemingway
Gandhi
Lafayette
Prince (the Purple Warrior of Love... not Charles)
My father
Bono
Shatner
Churchill
and Mike Rowe.
Don't know who Mike Rowe is? Well you're missing out. This is my brief homage to the man himself: You might know him as the host of Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel. OHHHH!! That guy. Yeah, him. Scruffy beard, trucker hat, old blue jeans (have I ever mentioned my sincere love of old collared shirts? I just love those cotton button downs with the colors faded from sun exposure and saturated in man-sweat from years of hiking in the Adirondacks, scaling insurmountable dunes in the Atlas Mountains, and herding sheep in the Himalayas. Of course, I don't where these shirts out [nor have I scaled the Himalayas], granted, but when I put one on, I just think about the sweaty adventures to come). He might be the coolest MF to walk the planet. Honestly, who would answer this ad:
"Looking for middle aged guy to stick his arm up multiple cows' asses and rummage through horse shit while being filmed. Must endure nauseating stenches and willingly endanger his life for the sake of entertainment. Wit a plus."
Mike Rowe would.
Come to think of it, I would to. Except, I'm not bad ass enough. In fact, I am kind of like the anti-thesis to bad ass. I might talk the talk, but I cower in the corner in the fetal position, sob, and suck on my pinkies, rather than walk the walk. Mike Rowe doesn't cry. He makes Chuck Norris look like a petrified Christopher Lowell. In a hair salon.
Perhaps the coolest factoid about MR (we have the same initials) is that he used to be an opera singer. You've got to be kidding me.
BAD ASS.
So, let's compare:
Mike:
ex-opera singer
Hosts hit television show
Probably bangs hot chicks
Risks life
Voted #4 Dudelist Dude by Maxim
Incredibly witty
Can probably bench press his truck
Kick ass beard stubble
Matt:
ex-collegiate musical theatre... uh... participant
writes a blog. Some people read it.
Is writing said blog at 10:40pm on a Thursday night, hence, no hot chicks in sight.
Lives with his parents.
Voted "Most School Spirit" in high school. (Hence, no hot chicks in sight.)
Thinks of come backs three hours later in the shower
I almost won a fist fight with Stephan Hawkings once. He cheated.
Hell yeah.
So go out there, turn on the Discovery Channel, and marvel at Mike. Perhaps some day, with a little bit of sweat, perseverance, and sun burn, I can be a tenth as bad ass. Yeah. Maybe. A boy can dream.
-MR
Hemingway
Gandhi
Lafayette
Prince (the Purple Warrior of Love... not Charles)
My father
Bono
Shatner
Churchill
and Mike Rowe.
Don't know who Mike Rowe is? Well you're missing out. This is my brief homage to the man himself: You might know him as the host of Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel. OHHHH!! That guy. Yeah, him. Scruffy beard, trucker hat, old blue jeans (have I ever mentioned my sincere love of old collared shirts? I just love those cotton button downs with the colors faded from sun exposure and saturated in man-sweat from years of hiking in the Adirondacks, scaling insurmountable dunes in the Atlas Mountains, and herding sheep in the Himalayas. Of course, I don't where these shirts out [nor have I scaled the Himalayas], granted, but when I put one on, I just think about the sweaty adventures to come). He might be the coolest MF to walk the planet. Honestly, who would answer this ad:
"Looking for middle aged guy to stick his arm up multiple cows' asses and rummage through horse shit while being filmed. Must endure nauseating stenches and willingly endanger his life for the sake of entertainment. Wit a plus."
Mike Rowe would.
Come to think of it, I would to. Except, I'm not bad ass enough. In fact, I am kind of like the anti-thesis to bad ass. I might talk the talk, but I cower in the corner in the fetal position, sob, and suck on my pinkies, rather than walk the walk. Mike Rowe doesn't cry. He makes Chuck Norris look like a petrified Christopher Lowell. In a hair salon.
Perhaps the coolest factoid about MR (we have the same initials) is that he used to be an opera singer. You've got to be kidding me.
BAD ASS.
So, let's compare:
Mike:
ex-opera singer
Hosts hit television show
Probably bangs hot chicks
Risks life
Voted #4 Dudelist Dude by Maxim
Incredibly witty
Can probably bench press his truck
Kick ass beard stubble
Matt:
ex-collegiate musical theatre... uh... participant
writes a blog. Some people read it.
Is writing said blog at 10:40pm on a Thursday night, hence, no hot chicks in sight.
Lives with his parents.
Voted "Most School Spirit" in high school. (Hence, no hot chicks in sight.)
Thinks of come backs three hours later in the shower
I almost won a fist fight with Stephan Hawkings once. He cheated.
Hell yeah.
So go out there, turn on the Discovery Channel, and marvel at Mike. Perhaps some day, with a little bit of sweat, perseverance, and sun burn, I can be a tenth as bad ass. Yeah. Maybe. A boy can dream.
-MR
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Life is a Stage
This whole "working" thing is kind of getting on my nerves. For the past nine months, I would wake up around 10, fall out of bed (often quite literally), partake in something closely resembling hygiene, and stumble out the door to give a three to four hour lecture to a group of wide eyed tourists. Ask names... forget names. Schmooze. Booze. That was it. Done. (With notable exceptions).
But now I am working nearly every day this week. What's up with that? And to top it off, I am in one place, wearing a uniform (dirty green embroidered aprons are so hot right now), doing the same thing, and saying the same thing to everybody: "Hey, how's it going? What can I do for you today?"
It reminds me of an interview I saw once with Marlon Brando (I spend an unhealthy amount of time on YouTube, browsing for old music clips or interviews). In it, Brando, looking rather Jabba the Hutt-ish, philosophizes on how we are all actors. Everybody acts throughout the course of their day. It's natural. And you know what? He's right.
As a tour guide, sure, I acted. That's part of the job. It needs to seem fresh and exciting every time. I mean, come on, I'm working for tips. But even here at the healthy deli, I have to act like every new person who walks through the door could be the second incarnation of Christ. But that's "customer service". There's nothing wrong with it. It's just interesting to think about. I mean, if this did not exist, the whole service industry would be a suicide-worthy experience.
How natural is it to be "fake" to a degree? Is that instinctual? Thinking about it, I can't imagine another time in history where that would have been necessary. Maybe when greeting a King or Queen, but often times they were basically supposed to be the next incarnation of Christ (or at least a demi-god)! Acting in life seems to be a modern phenomena (at least according to my forty seconds of analysis).
When you are at work today, count how many times you "act". Pass the same person twice in the hallway? Make it seem like you're excited to see them! Again! So much better than the first time.
-Matt
But now I am working nearly every day this week. What's up with that? And to top it off, I am in one place, wearing a uniform (dirty green embroidered aprons are so hot right now), doing the same thing, and saying the same thing to everybody: "Hey, how's it going? What can I do for you today?"
It reminds me of an interview I saw once with Marlon Brando (I spend an unhealthy amount of time on YouTube, browsing for old music clips or interviews). In it, Brando, looking rather Jabba the Hutt-ish, philosophizes on how we are all actors. Everybody acts throughout the course of their day. It's natural. And you know what? He's right.
As a tour guide, sure, I acted. That's part of the job. It needs to seem fresh and exciting every time. I mean, come on, I'm working for tips. But even here at the healthy deli, I have to act like every new person who walks through the door could be the second incarnation of Christ. But that's "customer service". There's nothing wrong with it. It's just interesting to think about. I mean, if this did not exist, the whole service industry would be a suicide-worthy experience.
How natural is it to be "fake" to a degree? Is that instinctual? Thinking about it, I can't imagine another time in history where that would have been necessary. Maybe when greeting a King or Queen, but often times they were basically supposed to be the next incarnation of Christ (or at least a demi-god)! Acting in life seems to be a modern phenomena (at least according to my forty seconds of analysis).
When you are at work today, count how many times you "act". Pass the same person twice in the hallway? Make it seem like you're excited to see them! Again! So much better than the first time.
-Matt
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Consciously Rising Above Paranoia (CRAP)
I'll admit it: I'm a hypocrite.
I said I'd never work in food services, and here I am with my hands wrist deep in organic chick peas (which are neither "chicks" nor "peas"... discuss). I mean, my entire life I have been sort of irrationally disgusted with half-eaten or partially eaten food. The thought of putting my delicate hands into the leftover muck left by others was enough to send me running for the hills with tears streaming from my eyes, snot dripping from my nose, and my arms waving frantically like a marionette on crack.
EH! How disgusting! How vile! I'm not quite sure what is the most revolting aspect of touching the food. Truly, it's harmless. It can't hurt me. I know that. But, I can compare touching Somewhat-Hardly Imbibed Trifles [SHIT] with that feeling when I pick up dog poop with a plastic bag or paper towel: Even though my hand never comes into contact with the frightening substance and I am otherwise fine, there is still that revolting feeling that sends shivers through my body. Oh man. I hate it when I have to do that. Some people are so natural at it! I envy them. They're all "It's natural! No big deal. I just pick it up, as if... (they look softly into the distance) as if I was simply plucking an enchanting flower from an azure meadow. Bend. Pick. Done." And I'm all "EWW!! IT'S WARM!"
Where was I? Ah yes...
Oh enchanted world that hath beset these troubled times upon mine depraved being. Why dost thou forsaketh me! For what have I done to deserve this... this... culinary quandary! I think, therefore I am. Henceforth: I touch, therefore, I am employed.
Example: Today I had to "clean the sinks" at closing. Oh god. Such a harmless title, and such a sinister understatement. They were completely covered in SHIT. SHIT everywhere.
And now I present to you, the climatic song at the end of the First Act of SHIT the Musical entitled, "Moving On (I Don't Care)" In this song, Mateo, the good-natured but seriously confused Puerto Rican immigrant, gets over his irrational fear of SHIT:
On the chair
On the bowls
In my hair
In the stove
SHIT everywhere!
SHIT everywhere!
Silverware!
Watch me stare!
It's covered in SHIT and...
I (crash) DON'T (crash) CARE! (a sustained F)
Tomorrow should be fun,
Matt
I said I'd never work in food services, and here I am with my hands wrist deep in organic chick peas (which are neither "chicks" nor "peas"... discuss). I mean, my entire life I have been sort of irrationally disgusted with half-eaten or partially eaten food. The thought of putting my delicate hands into the leftover muck left by others was enough to send me running for the hills with tears streaming from my eyes, snot dripping from my nose, and my arms waving frantically like a marionette on crack.
EH! How disgusting! How vile! I'm not quite sure what is the most revolting aspect of touching the food. Truly, it's harmless. It can't hurt me. I know that. But, I can compare touching Somewhat-Hardly Imbibed Trifles [SHIT] with that feeling when I pick up dog poop with a plastic bag or paper towel: Even though my hand never comes into contact with the frightening substance and I am otherwise fine, there is still that revolting feeling that sends shivers through my body. Oh man. I hate it when I have to do that. Some people are so natural at it! I envy them. They're all "It's natural! No big deal. I just pick it up, as if... (they look softly into the distance) as if I was simply plucking an enchanting flower from an azure meadow. Bend. Pick. Done." And I'm all "EWW!! IT'S WARM!"
Where was I? Ah yes...
Oh enchanted world that hath beset these troubled times upon mine depraved being. Why dost thou forsaketh me! For what have I done to deserve this... this... culinary quandary! I think, therefore I am. Henceforth: I touch, therefore, I am employed.
Example: Today I had to "clean the sinks" at closing. Oh god. Such a harmless title, and such a sinister understatement. They were completely covered in SHIT. SHIT everywhere.
And now I present to you, the climatic song at the end of the First Act of SHIT the Musical entitled, "Moving On (I Don't Care)" In this song, Mateo, the good-natured but seriously confused Puerto Rican immigrant, gets over his irrational fear of SHIT:
On the chair
On the bowls
In my hair
In the stove
SHIT everywhere!
SHIT everywhere!
Silverware!
Watch me stare!
It's covered in SHIT and...
I (crash) DON'T (crash) CARE! (a sustained F)
Tomorrow should be fun,
Matt
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Hormone Free
I've done it. It's about time, and I've done it.
I got a job.
Where, pray tell? Well let me tell you!
a deli.
Bummer, right? I know, tell me about it.
Well, it's not your ordinary deli, per se (Could you imagine ever actually working at Se Port? I think I would strangle myself from a combination of stress, testosterone suffocation, and random encounters with people whose names I don't quite remember but necessitate a hey I know you.) I work at one of those organic all natural feel good hippie delis! If you lean back, I'm sure you can smell the patchouli...
As usual, I'm exaggerating ("Every story is the truth, and some of them actually happened"). This place is sort of low key, relaxed, "greet the usuals" kind of a place. I think I'll fit in. And really, I'll only be there for about a month or so before I head off for theatrical pastures in CT, so I know I can handle it.
So, I'll do this for a while, be a bum at home for a month or two, and after getting my yearly musical theatre quota (you know I'm doing two shows in CT right?), I'm back on the boat and off to Scotland for a few months. Peace out patchouli and hand me the haggis!
I only have one fear: when in Munich, I needed to buy lederhosen after I became a certified beer drinking Bavarian. Will I come back from Scotland in a he-skirt?
Hell yes.
-Matt
I got a job.
Where, pray tell? Well let me tell you!
a deli.
Bummer, right? I know, tell me about it.
Well, it's not your ordinary deli, per se (Could you imagine ever actually working at Se Port? I think I would strangle myself from a combination of stress, testosterone suffocation, and random encounters with people whose names I don't quite remember but necessitate a hey I know you.) I work at one of those organic all natural feel good hippie delis! If you lean back, I'm sure you can smell the patchouli...
As usual, I'm exaggerating ("Every story is the truth, and some of them actually happened"). This place is sort of low key, relaxed, "greet the usuals" kind of a place. I think I'll fit in. And really, I'll only be there for about a month or so before I head off for theatrical pastures in CT, so I know I can handle it.
So, I'll do this for a while, be a bum at home for a month or two, and after getting my yearly musical theatre quota (you know I'm doing two shows in CT right?), I'm back on the boat and off to Scotland for a few months. Peace out patchouli and hand me the haggis!
I only have one fear: when in Munich, I needed to buy lederhosen after I became a certified beer drinking Bavarian. Will I come back from Scotland in a he-skirt?
Hell yes.
-Matt
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